Celia:  (Stopping short.) Is it that you are going to Dublin?

Conan:  I am, and within the hour.

Celia:  Pull off those boots from your feet!

Conan:  I will not!  Let you leave my boots alone!

Celia:  You are not going out of the house with that slovenly appearance on you!  To have it said out in Dublin that you are a class of man never has clean boots but of a Sunday!

Conan:  They’ll do well enough without you meddling!

Celia:  Clean them yourself so! (Gives him a rag and blacking and goes on dusting.)

(Sings.) (Air, “City of Sligo.")

  “We may tramp the earth
  For all that we’re worth,
  But what odds where you and I go,
  We never shall meet
  A spot so sweet
  As the beautiful city of Sligo.”

Conan:  What ailed me that I didn’t leave her as she was before.

Celia:  (Stopping work.) What way are they now?

Conan:  (Having cleaned his boots, putting them on hurriedly.) They’re very good. (Wipes his brow, drawing hand across leaving mark of blacking.)

Celia:  The time I told you to put black on your shoes I didn’t bid you rub it upon your brow!

Conan:  I didn’t put it in any wrong place.

Celia:  I ask the whole of you, is it black his face is or white?

All:  It is black indeed.

Celia:  Would you put a reproach on the whole of the barony, going up among big citizens with a face on you the like of that?

Conan:  I’ll do well enough.  There will be the black of the smoke from the engine on it any way, and I after journeying in the train.

Celia:  You will not go be a disgrace to me.

Conan:  If it is black it is yourself forced me to it.

Celia:  If I did I’ll make up for it, putting a clean face upon you now. (Dips towel in pail and sings “With a fillip”—­air, “Garryowen”—­as she washes him.)

  “Bring to mind how the thrush gathers twigs for his nest
  And the honey bee toils without ever a rest
  And the fishes swim ever to keep themselves clean,
  And you’ll praise me for making you fit to be seen! 
  With a fillip, a fillip, a fillip. 
  A fillip, a fillip, a fillip. 
  A fillip, a fillip, a fillip, a fillip,
  A fillip, a fillip, a fillip, a fillip!”

Conan:  Let me go, will you!  Let you stop!  The soap that is going into my eye!

Celia:  My grief you are!  Let you be willing to suffer, so long as you will be tasty and decent and be a credit to ourselves.

Conan:  The suds are in my mouth!

Celia:  One minute now and you’ll be as clean as a bishop!

Conan:  Let me go, can’t you!

Celia:  Only one thing wanting now.